Focus and Distraction

I’ve been thinking a lot about distraction recently. And as tends to happen whenever I think about anything for longer than five minutes*, my thoughts begin to wander etymologically. The etymology of distraction isn’t overwhelming, but the origins of ‘focus’, distraction’s elusive sister, are quite lovely.

Distract comes from the Latin dis (away) + trahere (to draw or to drag).  When we are distracted, we are drawn away from our focus. So far, so intuitive. But focus? Well in Latin, focus was a domestic hearth. This seems immediately appealing, with my mind instantly making connections about the hearth being the focus of the home (and the 20th Century struggle between the fire and the television to be the focus in our living spaces, which remains largely unresolved despite some deeply uneasy attempts at neat solutions). But this is some prime folk etymology in action. Because focus didn’t enter English this way. Instead, it came via some good historical science.

Johannes Kepler used the term ‘focus’ to refer to the mathematical point of convergence, in an analogy with the burning point on a lens (so the fire is there after all, just not quite how we might imagine it at first). This came in handy while he was busy inventing an improvement on the telescope that allowed for a much greater degree of magnification than Gallileo’s original design. Thomas Hobbes borrowed this meaning, and brought it into English in a mathematical context in 1656. Who knew Hobbes was into maths as well as depressing political philosophy? But of course, being a good 17th Century scholar he was actually into everything. Fascinated by mathematics and optics, he was mathematics tutor of the Prince of Wales between 1646 and 1648, and his disagreement with Robert Boyle over the validity of the experimental method forms the basis for one of the classic works within the History of Science, Leviathan and the Air Pump by Steven Shapin and Simon Schaffer. 

So in conclusion. ‘Focus’ is from telescopes via domestic hearths, Hobbes hated experiments but loved maths, and distraction is a frighteningly easy state to fall into. Right. Now that we’ve got that sorted, we can all get back to what we were meant to be doing ten minutes ago. Focus, people! 

*although due to aforementioned distraction, the idea of thinking about any one thing for five whole minutes at a time seems, at this point, almost inconceivable. 

Limerence

I’m going to warn you now, this post will disappoint you. I’m going to introduce you to something amazing, you’re going to get very excited, you might even get a little carried away, and then you’re going to discover it doesn’t quite hold all that it promised. In etymological terms, at least. We might all learn some life lessons in the process. Or at the very least, one excellent word.

I’d never heard the term ‘limerence’ (or its adjective ‘limerent’) before this Sunday. But thank goodness I know it now. It speaks of a very particular, and essentially unpleasant, state of longing. A compulsive fixation with another person and overwhelming need for these feelings to be reciprocated. An apparently involuntary psychological state characterised by obsessive, intrusive thoughts; rapid cycling between despair and hope; physiological effects including flushes, heart palpitations and weakness; and sexuality. Lots of it.

It was first used by psychologist Dorothy Tannov in her book Love and Limerence: The Experience of Being in Love (1979). Since then the phenomenon has continued to be explored by other psychologists, some of whom anticipate the state eventually being defined as a psychiatric pathology and included in the DSM. Limerence is more commonly recognised within non-monogomous communities*, where having a conceptual framework for this phenomenon is particularly important given its potential impact on pre-existing relationships.

And the sound of it! It’s so suggestive of so many good connections. I’m thinking glimmer, liminal, libidinal, limericks…

But here’s the thing. This beautiful word has no etymology. None at all. In the words of its creator:  “I first used the term ‘amorance’ then changed it back to ‘limerence’… It has no roots whatsoever. It looks nice. It works well in French. Take it from me it has no etymology whatsoever.” (Tennov in the Observer 11 Sept. 1977)

Its official etymology is therefore “limer” (arbitrary syllable) + “ence”.

Is anyone else a little disappointed? To soften the blow, I’ll tell you that the word arbitrary comes from the Latin arbiter (“one who goes somewhere (as witness or judge),” from ad- “to” + baetere “to come, go.” And ‘arbitrator’ came into English in the specific sense of “one chosen by two disputing parties to decide the matter” in the 1540s.

The thing I like most is that the the earliest recorded usage of this form form was the feminine noun arbitress (mid-14c.) “a woman who settles disputes.”

Awesome word. Rubbish etymology. I think we’ve all learned something today, haven’t we?

*You’ll probably learn loads of other great stuff from that glossary, you can thank me later.

Supercilious

Yesterday I was walking past Stepney Green City Farm, speculating on how the various animals we could see inside thought about each other. The enormous and amazing cows (which I have since discovered are set to be slaughtered this month, putting a sadder spin on the whole incident) evidently believed the donkeys to be supercilious.

As soon as I said the word out loud, my companion demanded to know its origins. Being a biologist, he had suspicions that it related somehow to ‘cilia’  (you remember them from Science GCSE, right?) and so, somehow, hair. I scoffed internally but how wrong I was! It turns out that ‘supercilious’ comes directly from the Latin superciliosus – literally meaning eyebrow – alluding to the arrogant raising of an eyebrow by supercilious humans.

And where does superciliosus come from? Super (above) + Cilium (eyelid, eyelash). So there we are. A victory for supercilious biologists (and their eyelashes) everywhere.

Diet

The lucky ones among you will already know about my lust for food history. I went to a lecture this week by awesome historian Steven Shapin, and discovered that I am in good company; over the past few years he has been teaching and writing about the history of dietetics and its relationship to expertise and conceptions of the self. The lecture was amazing, but that’s a story for another blog. More importantly was learning the etymology of the word ‘diet,’ and how it links to formal politics.

Historically, dietetics was concerned not with losing weight or attaining greater health, but with maintaining health. It was also known as ‘regime’, and ‘hygiene’. The important ideas were drawn from Galenic humoural theory and focussed on finding foods that complemented your own personal humoural balance. So if you were phlegmatic (cold and wet), then you should eat lots of melon. (Incidentally, this is where the phrase ‘agrees with me’ in relation to food comes from – foods that matched your humoural constitution were said to ‘agree with you’).

ANYWAY. The important thing in all this is the ideas of order, balance and regularity. The origin of diet is the Greek diaita, originally “way of life, regimen.” This gave the name to early Roman political assemblies, dieta. Many Parliaments today (including the Japanese) are still called the Diet. And the same notions of order, balance and control (over both the individual body and the body politic) mean that the word came to define individual choices about controlling our health with food and drink.

PS You can hear Shapin talking about this much more coherently on this week’s Thinking Allowed.

Encumber

Now before you say anything, a medieval historian told me this so I believe with all my heart that it’s true.

‘Encumber’ has its roots in the story of a medieval saint, known in England as ‘Uncumber’ and by several other names in Europe. Startlingly beautiful but deeply pious, Uncumber was married off by her parents against her wishes. The night before her wedding, she prayed that God would intervene in some way to prevent the marriage, so she could fulfil her dream of becoming a nun.

When she woke up, she had a full beard. Her suitor ran a mile, and, thus unencumbered, she was able to move to the nunnery and live the rest of her days in blissful piuous hirsutitude.

Biro

Are there any English words of Hungarian origin? You may well ask yourself on a frosty winter’s evening. I know I did. The answer to your question would be: not many, not many at all.

(Paprika, Goulash, and Sabre are the highlights, and none of them have very good stories).

But – get this – the inventor of the ball point pen was a Hungarian named László József Bíró. He first demonstrated his ballpoint pen in 1931, then moved to Argentina where he started marketting them as Biro Pens of Argentina.

Awesome Hungarian fact.

Italian diagnosis fail = etymology win

Some lovely historical misconceptions that have become embedded in our medical language.

Both ‘malaria’ and ‘influenza’ are vestiges of a time before the contagion and vector-borne theories of disease. At certain points in time, it was noticed that entire communities were stricken with nasty symptoms – coughs, sneezes, chills. Before there was any sense that disease could spread from person to person through contagion, such periodic outbreaks were believed to be the effect of ill-crossed stars; the community was under the influence of a malign astrological constellation. The Italian for influence? Influenza.

And ‘malaria’? It’s another literal one. Before the vector-bourne theory of disease was established, and the mosquito identified as the vector for malaria, the only explanation for the high incidence of malaria in swampy regions was the mal (bad) aria (air) given off by the swamps. Not the little midgies that bred in them.

Oh and consider this a buy two get one free Italian etymology fact: Quarantine. From quarantina giorni (forty days), the length of time that ships arriving from plague-ridden areas would be made to dock outside Venice before entering the port, and so Europe.

Awesome Italian medical facts.

Watch

Why is the thing on your wrist* called a watch?

In medieval monasteries, time was punctuated by the regular ringing of bells – prayer bells, dinner bells, curfew bells… This signalled time to not only the monks but also those in the surrounding area. Someone sat in the church steeple, sounding the regular bells but also keeping a look-out for approaching danger (knights, swarming hordes, etc), which he would signal by ringing an alarm bell. This man was known as ‘the watch’.

Awesome horological fact!

*Or on your grandpa’s wrist, given that you are probably too young to wear one and have an app for that instead.

Protocol

More gems from Margaret Visser… She discusses the role of cultural rituals/ ettiquette in putting us at ease; cultural norms giving us the abilty to predict the behaviour of others, and so to feel more comfortable about the immediate future. And this quality of ettiquette – that it allows us to anticipate the way certain situations will play out, and removes uncertainty, links to the origins of the word ‘protocol’ itself.

It comes from the Greek protokollon – proto, first, and kollon, to glue. A protokollon was the sheet glued to a manuscript case to give some idea of its contents. So protocol is a little cultural contents page, glued to the manuscript case of our souls.*

Awesome ettiquette fact!

*I’ve got a halloween hangover, please be nice and ignore the schmaltzy weirdness and ineffectual nature of that metaphor.

 

‘Room and board’

What does the ‘board’ mean in room and board? It normally means a slightly unappetising breakfast buffet – but why does board mean food or meal in this context?

Well it’s to do with the origins of domestic furniture in Europe, way back in what us professional historians like to call ‘The Dark Ages’*

Before we had tables with legs and strictly defined identities (dining room table, dressing table, ping-pong table), it was common to use mobile planks of wood (‘boards’) to serve as surfaces on which to put things. When people ate a meal, they would pick up a handy plank and lay it across their knees to eat from. The reference to a board, when the table became more established, came to refer to the meal itself.

This is also where ‘cupboard’ comes from – it’s the plank on which we keep our cups.

Awesome horizontal surfaces fact!

* Note: this is the most historically incorrect term it is possible to use. Kind of like the historical version of ‘ironic’ racism. Ie not funny, and I’m somewhat ashamed of myself.